Man of Conflict Series
BOOK TWO
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Raging Rajahs
Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Wareham
All Rights Reserved
Contents:
Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
By the Same Author
Introduction
Raging Rajahs: Septimus Pearce takes himself a wife, but domestic bliss is interrupted when he is sent to quell rioting. As a result of heavy-handedness by some of his men, he is ‘punished’ by being posted to India where he is involved in minor campaigns before leading his men in the battle for Ahmednagar, the stronghold of the fearsome Marathas.
Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated Raging Rajahs in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK TWO
Chapter One
“Home Establishment, so they tell us, and it's bloody Ireland again!”
The outrage echoed around the Mess as the transport put into Kingstown, intercepted off Bristol before they could make port and sent to put down the Paddies, again. It was the April of 1798, and the Irish were up – what the details were, the grievances specific to this occasion, they had not been told, it sufficed that there was rebellion against the Crown, a particularly heinous treason because the country was at war. The Irish must be expected to be in collusion with the French – ‘England’s enemy is Ireland’s friend’, the old saying ran – and they must be pacified before they could be made into a French colony with ports in an ideal position to strangle England’s sea-borne trade.
The much-depleted battalion marched to camp at the Curragh and brevet Lieutenant-Colonel Howton set Septimus in command while he fled post-haste to Christchurch to demand every man even part-trained to flesh out the ranks. Septimus, shivering in the cold of spring, put a light training routine in place, tried to make the half battalion more fit for European campaigning. He sent his normal monthly letter to Brother George, told him of the change of destination, regretted that he would not be home for a few months longer. George’s return, pleased to hear of Septimus’ return to a more healthy land, hinted at a marriage in the wind, to a ‘Lady of Birth and Distinction, not unknown to my Martial Brother’. She would not bring a dowry, it seemed, but offered ‘a Place in Society’.
Septimus scratched his head – who did he know, a Lady? The name of the Honourable Lucasta Everholt crept into his mind and he began to grin, mentally wished his brother good fortune.
The New Foresters remained in their barracks, garrison troops, when the redcoats marched out. They were too much diminished to stand in line and it was accepted that they needed to make their numbers back up and then train their men, but they were still given the sentry beats and night patrols of a battalion on guard duty.
Detailed reports came back to them of the bloody, confused skirmishes and marches that led to the definitive battle at Vinegar Hill, and of the slaughter of the raw enthusiasts who made up the Irish ranks, young men who thought that belief in their cause could make up for inadequate weapons and ignorance of musketry and drill. Less was said of the harrying of the Catholics that followed, of the parade of hanging noose and flogging triangle and pitch caps that broke the spirit of the peasantry for a full generation, of the trail of brutality and rape across the whole countryside, but enough for all to know what was happening. Septimus was not interested – if the Irish insisted on being ignorant and treacherous Papists, and got their arses well kicked for their pains, it was none of his business.
By August the New Foresters were back in depot at Christchurch, the two battalions temporarily united.
“Major Pearce, and at so early an age! It sits well upon you, Septimus!”
George was elated, openly, expansively pleased; he had already completed the purchase, insistent on his right, nay, his duty, to aid his young brother.
“I have bought a few more acres in your name, Septimus – you hold some eight hundred, now, rented to a good tenant on long lease, for I assume you do not wish to retire to the life of a gentleman farmer?”
Septimus agreed that he did not; he might enjoy the respectability that broad acres brought, but actually working them held no attractions at all. He was not, would never, he hoped, become, an agriculturalist, fashionable though it might be.
“Good! I shall put no more of your money into land, at least not for a few years. Good, careful investments in local firms, all known to me, for the next while, so as to provide extra income, for land gives very low returns, you know, Septimus, rarely matches the yield of Consols, even; three per centum, if you are lucky, after the Poor Rate. No, merchants known to me, men in a good way of business but still small and wishing to grow and happy to take a sleeping partner or a secured loan, they are what we need. I might as well be talking Dutch, had I not, brother?”
“You had, George – you lost me when you talked of Consols. I have heard of them, of course…”
“But you have no idea what they are. Nor need you know, Septimus, you are no tradesman!”
Septimus nodded his agreement – he had imbibed enough of the ideas and standards of the Mess to look down on Trade, pushing aside the knowledge that he supported his majority on his private income from the proceeds of that vulgarity.
“You heard of the Banking Collapse, Septimus? It is over now and the surviving banks in the nature of things were the strongest, the best run, so the system as a whole is the better for it. We came out of it very well indeed, purely by luck! I had bought heavily as prices fell, the warehouses full and my account at Turner’s Bank almost empty when he shut his doors – we dropped a bare hundred. I bought out Thomas Butt eighteen months ago on the back of it, for he lost two thousands when Turner failed, and then another ten when the men he had sold to could not meet his duns for having lost their money too.”
George shook his head wonderingly.
“The Lord’s will, Septimus! Butt came in to me at a tenth of his true worth – he had no cash to meet his pressing bills and there was no other buyer in the market and he had to sell or face debtor’s prison, and he was our
only substantial rival in three counties! We are rich now, Septimus, with premises in Salisbury and Poole as well as Winchester, and Miss Everholt is pleased to ally herself with the family!”
Septimus pretended surprise and offered all of the appropriate congratulations and expressions of amaze. He had not understood the half of what George had said – he knew there had been a great slump in trade and that many country banks had failed, but could not comprehend how that could have made George a profit – but, then, why should he know, or wish to?
“When do you wed, George?”
“Next month, brother. Jonathan and Amelia have met her, and both say they like her,” he added. “Frederick is too young to know, of course.”
“Of course. From Sparsholt Church, I would imagine?”
“Yes, that is her parish still. You will be there?”
“I could not be elsewhere, brother!”
They drank a ceremonial toast to ‘the happy event’.
“I shall look to take a furlough soon, George. Is father’s house on a long let?”
“Your house, Septimus! A quarter’s notice, you could walk in after Christmas.”
“Would you do that for me, please?”
George would, with the greatest of pleasure, mentioned the matter of staff, saying that Cook would come to him and it might be possible to keep on some of those working there at present.
“Cooper comes with me, as always, George. He will never leave my service now – we were wounded together and he looked after me from the moment he could stand again.”
Mention of the wound stirred George’s curiosity – requests, persuasion, affectionate bullying, and Septimus doffed his civilian frock coat and cravat, opened his shirt front. The cicatrice across his chest was scarlet, three fingers broad and ragged, the skin shiny, flaking in places; the wound was clean, healing almost complete, but it was ugly, the burn furrow promising never to fill in. George expressed his horror too loudly; the children came in and saw as well. Jonathan burst into tears, his ambition to be a soldier suddenly disappearing; Amelia, just eight years old, said nothing, hugged her uncle’s waist, resting her head against him for a moment.
Septimus stroked the little girl’s hair, thinking how pleasant it must be for George to have a loving child such as this in his house. “’Majors should marry’”, he quoted, aloud. “I think I must look about me in the New Year, George.”
Amelia said nothing, but Septimus felt that she approved.
Christchurch barracks was little changed.
Major Treasure had died; rising from the table at Mess he had choked and farted and collapsed back into his chair, never to move again; only the most junior of officers had been surprised. For the rest, the bulk of the lieutenants and all of the ensigns were new to Septimus but the sergeants remained, as did the training programme he had instituted. It was explained that the rigorous training regime tired the men so that they were much better behaved, less of a nuisance in barracks and town – it was easier so.
“’Out of corruption shall come forth sweetness’”, Howton quoted, far outmatching Septimus in erudition and piety.
Of the officers he had remembered from his more recent sojourn in Christchurch only Lieutenant Edwards had volunteered to transfer to the First Battalion and had joined them in Ireland. He had been perhaps one of the least likely to do so, Septimus had thought, but he accepted that he had been wrong and had welcomed his lean, sneering face into the Mess. He noticed now that Edwards had very little to say to the officers of the Second Battalion; possibly he had made himself unpopular there.
Howton drew his attention next afternoon, smiling ruefully and pointing to his rank markings; he was a major again, his brevet ended
“A new colonel is coming, Septimus. I am told the vacancy has been purchased, though by whom, I know not.”
Lieutenant-Colonel Walters duly appeared, his thousands paid and vicarious glory accrued. He had never fought, had never been posted out of England, seemed, in fact, to have spent his whole forty years in London and Hertfordshire. His father, like Septimus’, had been a merchant, but in the Metropolis, the City in fact, and in a much better, richer, more genteel way of trade, the East Indies, they presumed, although its exact nature was nature unknown in Christchurch, and he had brought his son up to be a gentleman. The Guards – the Gentleman’s Sons – had not been possible, but the politer infantry regiments had been open to his wealth and genteel education and the young Walters had graced messes in and around the capital for two decades.
Purchase ended at battalion level – Walters would rise to the rank of general through seniority, but to be given a command he must bring himself to the attention of Horse Guards; a title, be it never so minor, would have done that for him, but in the absence of nobility he must display some degree of merit. With his wealth, if he achieved the rank of major-general and took a leading part in a campaign he would certainly also become a baronet, at least, so it was worthwhile, he felt, to spend two or three years out of London with a fighting regiment of the Line. The New Foresters, he had been informed by his contacts at Horse Guards, were in the habit of getting into small engagements and then winning them rather well, and should be ideal for his purpose, so long as there was a place to fight. That was a problem, as the army did not seem to have any campaigns running at the moment, except in India, which was inconvenient and very unfashionable and involved a seven year posting.
Walters was a pleasant man of medium height and looks and intelligence, one who drank little and fornicated not at all. He had married, for love, as a captain and was placidly domestic, happy with his growing family. In a previous battalion the resident wit had commented that many faces could be lost in a crowd, but Walters could be unnoticed on his own. Walters had been rather pleased when he had, inevitably, heard of the remark – he felt a gentleman should not attract vulgar attention. He had learned a little of soldiering, as he understood it, and he liked smart dress and ‘good’ parades, and he was aware that he knew almost nothing of the more bloody-handed elements of the trade. He came humbly to the New Foresters – and they had no idea how to handle him.
Howton took furlough first, three months until the New Year, when Septimus would go; the meanwhile Septimus was second-in-command and buffer between the new man and the battalion.
Walters wanted more parades, but Septimus dissuaded him – it would interfere with training. The colonel liked to see the men smart, but Septimus explained how essential it was that they should wear comfortable working dress when they were busy. The colonel wanted to see a greater amount of drill, he could not understand why the most experienced men did barely one hour a day. Septimus told him, unaware of the concept of tact, that if he had smelt powder he would have known that it was musketry that won battles, that the sole purpose of drill evolutions was to enable the men to get efficiently into their ranks on the field and they needed to know no more than that. The New Foresters, Septimus said, were not tin soldiers to be set in rows in the park for the ladies to admire, they were fighting men and needed to practice the skills of killing Frenchmen quickly.
By the end of their first fortnight together the colonel considered Septimus to be a cold-hearted, bloody-minded young butcher and Septimus thought Walters was a fop and a molly; both were no more than half right.
The wedding went well, Septimus thought, the bride very white, the groom very red in the face; a good number of guests, many of genuine gentility, had turned up and there was a massive feast and dancing to follow. The service, somewhat Low Church, was plain and simple, the lack of ornamentation serving to emphasise Septimus’ dazzle of scarlet at the front, where he stood by his brother, his new badges of rank occasioning a degree of comment as they estimated his age.
“Field promotions… pushed up young… Sugar Islands… the Chronicle twice.”
The buzz came to his ears, was not unwelcome – it all served to make him a known figure to the County.
Septimus was reintroduced to his communi
ty during the festivities that followed, exchanging greetings with dozens of people who he should have known and a few he actually remembered. Completely new to him were the Osbornes, landholders in the area of Spring Vale, north of Winchester, and whose acres marched with his. They were County - Squire Osborne bore his title with pride, and had, in the nature of things, little contact with the merchant classes, but soldiers were different, it seemed. The squire gave Septimus his hand and a cordial ‘how-de-do’; his wife, son and jet-black haired young daughter offered polite bows. As a neighbour, Septimus was obliged to talk: the weather was warm for October; the Battle of the Nile a wonderful success; the putting down of the Irish a matter for congratulation; the world generally in improving condition. The violins struck up and Septimus necessarily begged the honour of Miss Osborne’s hand for the first pair of dances, she quite happy to have a partner other than the boring, known-forever, youths of local family.
Miss Osborne was short and still young, seventeen or so, but her hair was up and she was out – she was of marriageable age. She was also very attractive; not beautiful, but possessed of well-opened bright blue eyes and high cheekbones and a broad mouth and white, even teeth. She danced well, better than her partner, and talked with a little wit. Septimus unwound in her company, chatted about the West Indies and his brief excursion onto French soil. At the end of half an hour each was pleased enough with the other to wish to meet again, to appoint a supper together.
The meanwhile, Squire Osborne had been talking to George and his wife to Sister Amelia, god-mother to George’s daughter. Between them they established Septimus to have his eight hundred acres in freehold and a life interest in the firm worth two thousand a year at the least computation and his allowance of another five hundreds. The Major was worth a cool three thousand per annum, they calculated, and a meed of glory, too, a certainty of generalship and a probability of a knighthood at his present rate. Squire lived comfortably on two thousand and would have been content indeed to have matched his daughter to any man with a square mile to his name; he looked with great complaisance on his darling girl and ordered her elder brother to be especially polite to ‘the young military gentleman’.
Raging Rajahs (Man of Conflict Series, Book 2) Page 1